I eat books of poetry for dinner,
and you are on the couch next to me.
I know we are here, but what do we call this?
I think the word is home, but it
sometimes feels like a serrated knife.
sometimes, it feels like we’re holding hands
in our sleep. There is a book of words like home
in my hands: it is full of empty driveways and watering cans,
and dancing under the moon,
I eat the words, but starve on the feast.
I would have broken you like granite; placed you
like a kitchen counter. You were never meant to be the cutting board.
You are the knife. I do not play with these domestic things.
Come sit at the table next to me, darling.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
There are bluebirds flying all around
Inside my head
And I am reminded that tomorrow,
I may not hold your hand again
and I may never feel your teeth sink
Into my skin, again
*and wasn't that
supposed to be
a good thing?*
I'm left cleaning up the scraps,
the mess we leave behind
Like it's my responsibility
to carry your heartbreak, too.
*wasn't it
supposed to be good
when I was with you?*
I read somewhere
*This is where you fire your musket,
and this is where you fall and die*
but I've fired my musket-heart
and I haven't fallen and I'm still dying
for you to look me in the eye
Like you still mean it;
Like there isn't some line in the sand
you have drawn arbitrarily
to measure what has been inside my heart
When you never cared to ask.
Love, those bluebirds are making it hard to see
through all their Pulsing wings,
But in their eclipse,
I'm finding a ring of light.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
Sometimes,
If I squint real hard,
You name looks like
Light
When it's written out on paper.
Sometimes your name tastes like
Love
if I say it just right.
Sometimes,
Your eyes are the moon
That sometimes keeps me up at night.
But your heart?
Your heart is the ocean
I have been homesick for.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 9:18 PM UTC
I'm thinking about Flowers
I forgot to feed
and rocks
I wear
but don't always believe in.
I always wanted
to be
grounded;
wanted roots to
sprout
twist
and
grow
deep.
But I am not dirt, nor root, nor flower.
I am the empty watering can.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 8:56 PM UTC
somedays, Love is like an empty driveway. sometimes Love is a grizzly; when it wakes, it growls at you. sometimes, Love is a full moon. Love dances with You and forgets its claws and gnashing teeth. sometimes, Love doesn't know that its bites aren't supposed to hurt. but sometimes You don't either, so you forgive. sometimes Love is a cat that scratches and comes back purring. You don't fault it for being that way. Love is not easy to understand, but at least You are always willing to try.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 8:50 PM UTC
I saw the Earth once, and fell in love.
I wanted to be named dirt.
You laughed, called me mud,
But I love all things that hold up the sky
and You forgot that one is part of the other
and that I am part of everything.
I remain,
both dirt and sky
You
disappear with no name.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
I think
there are flowers growing
out of your
mouth.
You taste like weeds:
Wet and
muddy.
Our roots
or legs
tangled
in the dark once
and I thought I remembered safety
in the vines
But now they have
all
been
stripped
away.
Now,
I am like this empty house.
I am all cuts
all bruises
all dirt
And it hurt when you left me
but I
am still standing
The
foundation
is
cracked
but still strong
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 8:39 PM UTC
Dear Sledgehammer Heart,
You are tough as nails,
and you are also soft as silk.
You are wildflowers
blossoming in the spring,
and again in the summer.
You bloom more for yourself,
than for anyone else.
You are both student and teacher
with fistfuls of love,
clenched for those that hurt.
You taught me
the importance of a good porch:
The Foundation Must Be Solid.
A Home can be built anywhere,
as long as the Foundation is Solid.
You taught me to announce myself,
and to be proud of the songs that come out.
*(Even when the sounds are sharp,
they must be set free somehow, right?)*
And you taught me
how to handle a heart
as delicate as mine
pretends not to be,
with soft hands and gentle love
Stones smoothed into little pebbles
at the bottom of a river.
I can only hope I have learned
to hold your heart
with the skill and grace of bird wings
And to lift you
higher
as you do me.
It is the only way I can think to return
the lightness
you gift by existing.
Please remember,
My Sledgehammer Man,
you must simply exist
and the universe is lighter
for it.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC
I want to tell you
I tear at the sound of your name.
Like the paper jammed in my printer at work,
Sometimes I am a wrinkled mess without you.
I want to tell you
Distance tastes like acid in my throat.
It burns holes in my esophagus nightly.
I want to tell you
I wanted to make a home for myself
In the palms of your hands.
You could cup them
And you could bring them to your lips:
I would let you drink me, if you wanted to.
I want to tell you
This heart is heavy like iron,
But also fragile like glass.
It is fractured and full of chips
Like the one that formed the last time we kissed:
You told me you loved me, then.
It was the first and last time,
And I said it back sounding something like a desperate plea
Knowing it would not stop you from leaving
(But somehow you still lingered.)
I want to tell you all of these things,
But the words get stuck in my mouth.
They are afraid of coming out,
So instead I tell you
"I've missed you"
And I hope some part of you understands the rest.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
Dear New York,
I think of you often.
Dear New York,
In a parallel universe,
I am holding you tightly,
but in this one
I am only grasping
at empty air.
Dear New York,
Do you read
the love letters I write you
in my sleep?
Do you sleep at all?
Dear New York,
I hope you enjoyed your coffee today,
and that it was not bitter,
if it tasted like me.
Dear New York,
I hope it tasted like me.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:41 PM UTC